


The Sorrowful Witcher

by bookscorpion



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Hurt No Comfort, Whump, Witcher Whump Week (The Witcher), Witcher Whump Week 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:14:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27098671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookscorpion/pseuds/bookscorpion
Summary: A collection of ficlet forWitcher Whump Week 2020When Eskel is taken captive, he still makes plans to escape.Day 5: EnslavedThis one went a little off course in the direction of taken captive. Oh well.CW captivity, major character death
Comments: 29
Kudos: 25
Collections: Witcher Whump Week 2020





	1. Survivor's Guilt

Carrick runs, branches smacking into his face and mud soiling his pants. He's soaking wet from the rain, and from the blood that had splattered over him as the ghoul tore off Arent's head. It had been shockingly hot and for a moment, Carrick hadn't understood at all what he was seeing.

The screams of his companions brought him quickly to his senses as they scattered and ran. The ghouls loped after them, palisades of teeth bared in horrible grins. All around him, bones cracked and flesh was torn apart. People screamed, ghouls snarled and chewed noisily. Carrick had been frozen and maybe that saved his life because when _he_ ran, the ghouls had already all picked a prey.

Still, Carrick runs and runs, sobbing and stumbling through the sodden forest. He is convinced that there is one of the beasts right behind him. Every crack of a branch and splash of a puddle forces another burst of speed from him. Lungs burning and legs shaking, Carrick staggers on.

He doesn't stop until he comes upon a village. A few measly huts nestled between equally measly wheat fields, but to Carrick it is the most beautiful sight. The folks busy with the harvest look up when he appears and stare. Carrick almost gets brained by a flail swung by a frightened farmer, but a woman pushes the man aside and Carrick only feels the breeze of the flail passing by his face.

The people are kind, and let him rest in one of the huts, even get him a change of clothes. Carrick scrubs himself in a tub of cold water until his skin is raw. He still smells the blood everywhere, carries the stickiness in his mind. The screams of his companions echo in his ears.

It is his first time outside of Nilfgaard. He wants to stay in Vizima for a while, open trade routes between there and back home. Things went well. Carrick makes business partners easily, if not friends. After weeks of traveling together, he had started to consider some of his companions friends. Arent in particular.

Now, lying in the dark in the stable loft he has rented for the night, Carrick remembers Arent's easy laughter and the way his eyes had sparkled with mischief when telling a story. But what he remembers most is the moment when Arent turns away from him in surprise and how his headless body had fallen heavily into Carrick's arms. The blood stains all the good memories.

Carrick wishes for a way, any way, to make this undone. He had been the leader of their little group. He had picked the people in it, the time and the route. They had been his responsibility.

Maybe, if Carrick had been quicker to spot the ghouls. Maybe, if Carrick hadn't chosen this route. Maybe, if Carrick hadn't denied them a pause, eager to reach their destination.

Maybe.

Maybe someone survived. But the thought of going out there alone to search has Carrick shuddering with fear, his teeth clenched so hard his jaw aches. And none of the farmers will go. They have posted a notice for a witcher, that is all. Carrick cannot blame them.

He keeps all the blame for himself.


	2. Bedside Vigil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Eskel has snuck out of the dormitory to find Geralt. They had come to take him for more Trials two days ago, as if going through this once hadn't been enough._   
> Day 2: Bedside Vigil

Eskel has snuck out of the dormitory to find Geralt. They had come to take him for more Trials two days ago, as if going through this once hadn't been enough. But Geralt had proved more resilient that all of them. And as all witchers learned long before they went out on the Path, the reward for being able to take pain well was just more pain.

He finds Geralt in one of the tower rooms, following his faint smell. It's different now, but still close enough that Eskel recognises it easily among all the others. There's one of the adult witchers keeping guard over him. Cyon looks at Eskel, not surprised one bit to see him turn up unbidden. It's well known that they are inseparable and while some of their teachers frown upon their bond, it's tolerated mostly.

'Can I stay?' Eskel stands in the door, his view blocked by Cyon standing in front of him. But he can hear Geralt moving restlessly, moaning softly, his voice hoarse even in those small sounds. Eskel knows he has been screaming for days. Not that he has heard it. But he knows. They all do.

Cyon stares at him, and then nods. 'Fine. You come get me if anything goes wrong. I'll be back in a couple of hours and morning will find you in your bed. Understood?'

'Yes. Thank you.' Eskel steps aside to let Cyon pass and then pulls the door closed behind himself. He walks quietly, not wanting to wake Geralt. But he cannot keep in his startled gasp at seeing him.

Geralt's hair has turned completely white, spilling out of its ponytail on the pillow. Eskel has no idea what exactly was done to him for this to happen, and he doesn't want to think about what else may have changed. And if it might be slowly killing Geralt.

He looks like he is clinging to life with all the strength he has left. His skin is clammy and cold, not at all like the heat they all radiate. And he has gone even paler than before, although Eskel cannot say if that is just exhaustion or permanent.

Reaching out, he brushes a few strands of hair out of Geralt's face, wet with sweat. At his touch and his smell, Geralt calms down a little, weakly moving his hand. Eskel takes it and gives it a squeeze. There's the slightest squeeze back.

'I'm not going to leave you alone.' Eskel tries to give Geralt some water, and he drinks thirstily. Eskel has to stop him from drinking too much too fast. When they are done, he takes Geralt's hand again. He want to climb into bed with him, wrap himself around Geralt, hold him tight. But it's too small, and he doesn't want to jostle him too much. Every little move seems to hurt as it it.

'Try to sleep.'

But Geralt can't. Every time he dozes off, his body shakes itself in another wave of pain, another shuddering convulsion, another toneless whimper. He kicks away the blanket, even its slight weight clearly painful on his skin. Eskel can see muscles and tendons _move_ , can hear Geralt's bones creak, as his body rearranged itself to fit what the potions and spells demand it to be.

Through all of it, Geralt holds on to Eskel's hand. Eskel keeps talking to him and it seems to calm Geralt down. In the small hours before dawn, Eskel has run out of things to tell Geralt. Next time, he will bring a book to read to him. Now, he starts to sing. Not loud, just under his breath, but it's more than enough for Geralt to hear.

_The old hen, she cackled, she cackled on the fence, the old hen she cackled and she ain't cackled since_

In the end, the room falls silent, with Geralt in a short sleep, and Eskel asleep with his head on his arms right beside him.


	3. Forced to Watch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The punch whips his mother's head around, and Lambert freezes._  
>  Day 3: Forced to Watch
> 
> CW domestic abuse 

The punch whips his mother's head around, and Lambert freezes. Blood starts pouring from her nose, landing in a hot spatter on Lambert's hand and face, dripping into the pot of stew she is holding. She drops that with the next punch, the food spilling all over the floor in a puddle, the pot rolling away.

Lambert's father keeps hitting her, driving her across the room with his fists until she is cowered in a corner, protecting her head with her arms. She knows better than to fight back, or even to cry too loud. Still, every breathless sob is a knife to Lambert's heart, and there is nothing he can do.

He did try.

Once.

It had only made it worse, his father turning and kicking him so hard all the air had gone out of Lambert's lungs. And then he had only hit his mother harder, yelling at her about putting ideas into his son's head.

Lambert doesn't dare to move, for fear of stoking his father's rage. He sits with his eyes squeezed shut and listens to his mother's silent crying and the smack of fists hitting flesh. He flinches hard at the crash of crockery. At the sound of heavy footsteps. At the door slamming shut.

He listens to his mother crying, and he swears to himself, and to her, that he _will_ protect her, once he is strong enough. He has already learned that wishing won't get him anywhere, or his father would have been eaten by drowners long ago. Either he helps himself, and his mother, or no one ever will.


	4. Good Intentions, Bad Results

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Vesemir watches Lambert pick up his first training sword. The boy is sullen and still won't look at Vesemir. He will come around, sooner or later, Vesemir thinks._  
>  Day 4: Good Intentions, Bad Results
> 
> cw major (canonical) character death

Vesemir watches Lambert pick up his first training sword. The boy is sullen and still won't look at Vesemir. He will come around, sooner or later, Vesemir thinks.

And from what Vesemir has seen, he is better off here than at home. His father is a violent drunk and he would have killed the boy sooner or later. It had only taken the walk home from the river to the miserable little cottage to figure that out. So Vesemir has no regrets there.

***

Vesemir watches Lambert ride out on the Path for the first time. The boy has grow up into a lanky young man, but has lost nothing of his sullenness and has acquired only more anger. At the world in general, and at Vesemir in particular. But he will be a good Witcher. By now, Vesemir prides himself of being a good judge of that.

There is a tinge of regret when Lambert shoots him only a last look full of hate before spurring his horse out of the gate. It doesn't do to get attached, but it has happened anyway, despite Lambert's constant barrage of anger and contempt directed at him. But Vesemir has a soft spot for him anyway.

***

Vesemir watches Lambert grow older and even more angry. Lambert is angry the way other people enjoy their favourite food, with great relish and deliberation. It grows into almost a drug for him, and in combination with the copious amounts of alcohol he drinks, it starts to consume him like a drug.

Every time Vesemir tries to talk to him, to offer advice or just conversation, they end up yelling at each other. He tries not to show how much it hurt him because Lambert uses peoples' weaknesses against them with great skill. He's almost better at this than he is at fighting, and that is saying something. Vesemir had been right, Lambert is a good Witcher. But he does not enjoy it, and he does not find peace with it the way most of the others do. The way Vesemir has. Maybe, Vesemir thinks, when he grows older. Lambert is still young, after all.

***

Vesemir watches Lambert befriend another boy, Leo. For a time, Lambert loses some of his anger. He doesn't like that Vesemir took Leo in, and he doesn't like that Leo _wants_ to be a Witcher, but he takes him under his wing anyway.

Leo gets killed by the Salamandra and Lambert's anger is back in full force. Vesemir cannot imagine him not angry at this point. It's as much part of Lambert as Geralt's inability to stay out of things that are not his business, or Eskel's seemingly unending reasonable calm. At times, Vesemir wonders if that anger would have been this much a part of Lambert if Vesemir hadn't claimed him. The thought is tinged with regret.

***

Vesemir watches Uma writhe in pain, strapped down on Sad Albert. He has never wanted to see this again, and he has no answer for Lambert's question, thrown at him like acid, why he kept the table then.

Not much later, he watches helplessly as the Wild Hunt cuts Lambert down. He's too late to reach him and can only take his revenge on the hounds and soldiers, piling up their bodies around Lambert's. There is no time to mourn.

The last thing Vesemir thinks before Imlerith snaps his neck is that of all the countless things he did wrong in his life, claiming Lambert as a Witcher is the one he regrets most.


	5. Enslaved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _When Eskel is taken captive, he still makes plans to escape._  
>  Day 5: Enslaved
> 
> This one went a little off course in the direction of taken captive. Oh well.  
> CW captivity, major character death

When Eskel is taken captive, he still makes plans to escape.

He goes willingly, choosing not to fight the handful of men who stop him from leaving the village. It has happened to him before, and he has always been able to talk his way out of things, or simply break out of whatever cottage they try to hold him prisoner in. This will be no different. No need to fight and kill any of them.

He is tied with ropes, and marched _out_ of the village. When he sees the soldiers waiting at a crossroad, he knows this is no simple matter of a few villagers unhappy with how their contract went. Eskel pulls the ropes apart easily, and grabs his swords from the surprised man next to him.

The spell hits him before he can draw his sword.

He wakes up in the dark, and even his witcher eyes don’t help him much. The darkness grows into a gloom over the next few hours but never brighter. By that time, he has already explored his cell by touch, rough stones meeting his hands in every direction. He finds a bucket, and a pitcher of water. His armour is gone, tunic and braies all that is left. Dimeritium shackles circle his wrists, his magic extinguished. What light there is comes in front above, through what he thinks is a metal grate. It’s too high above to touch even when he is standing up. 

It takes time and a few tries, but Eskel can climb the narrow shaft that is his prison. But the grate doesn’t shift no matter what he does, and finally he slips and falls. It costs him most of his water, the pitcher tipping over when Eskel hits the ground and his shoulder knocks into it.

There is water nearby, a small stream. He can hear it and smell it. It drives him mad as time goes by and he has drunk the few swallows left in the pitcher. By the time someone comes to give him new water, Eskel has taken to licking the moisture off the walls. 

Eskel can barely speak, his mouth and throat parched. And by the time he has taken his first sips of water, the grate is already back in place. There’s a new bucket, and it holds a few heels of bread. No one has taken the time to do more to the bucket than give it a quick swill, and Eskel gags as he picks the bread from the filth left at the bottom. He can’t bring himself to eat it despite his hunger. 

The cell is barely big enough for him to sit with his legs drawn to his chest. He can kneel in his meditation pose and this is how he spends most of his time. Still, his muscles start to cramp and hurt, and there is little relief to be found from standing up and moving as best as he can. The pain becomes part of his life just as much as the thirst, the hunger and the darkness.

Soon, despair joins them. 

There is no one to look for him. Geralt died long ago. The School of the Wolf is no longer in existence. They had drifted apart, none of them willing to stay in Kaer Morhen, not even Vesemir after Lambert and Eskel had made it clear they would not return. Eskel has had a few meetings with Vesemir, and with Lambert, although never at the same time. Giving up the keep had broken the old man, and Eskel had had regrets but not enough to go back. Both of them have missed their last meeting with him, and he has worried but not yet enough to go looking. It isn’t exactly the first time it has happened with either of them. The Path isn’t kind to schedules. 

Now, Eskel wishes he had gone looking. 

He measures time by how often the man with the water and the new bucket arrives. Eskel thinks it’s every four or five days, but it might be longer. Or shorter. He falls asleep without noticing it. Even during meditation. And when he wakes up, the knife stabs of cramps tearing into his leg muscles and his back, he cannot tell how long he has been asleep. 

Over time, Eskel seeks refuge in sleep, and in his dreams. He dreams of riding the Path, of being out in the sun, and the wind, and the rain. Of walking wherever he chooses. Of food and drink, easily bought or hunted whenever he is hungry and thirsty.

He has stopped making plans to escape.

When they pull him out of the hole, he can barely stand. There is no need to beat him, yet they still do. His hands shackled on his back, Eskel is driven and dragged forward. The light of their torches hurts his eyes, the light of the sun blinds him. But he breathes the sweet air as deeply as he can.

There’s the roar of a crowd. After the long silence, it’s deafening. The smell of their sweat, their unwashed bodies, hits Eskel like a mace. He also smells fresh wood and resin, and beer, bread and roasting meat. His stomach clenches and his mouth waters even as he is dragged up on a rough platform. 

There are other men there, on their knees and shackled as well. Cat’s eyes, all of them. None of them in any better shape than Eskel. He can’t put names to faces, and they are not given any chance to talk. What they are given is their sentence.

Death. 

Their crime is being a non human. A monster. A mutant. A stealer of children, and a killer of men. 

The crowd shouts its approval. Eskel looks around and sees people very much like the ones he has spent his life protecting from monsters, and at times each other. Farmers and peasants and craftsmen, making a living as good as they can. They have gathered in the courtyard of a castle, not one Eskel recognises, and neither does he recognise the nobleman watching over the spectacle from a balcony. He’s young, and there’s a priest of the Eternal Fire next to him. And a mage. 

_They will come for you next, once they are done with us_ , Eskel thinks. 

And they are in a hurry to be done with them. One by one, the witchers get dragged forward, and the headsman swings his sword. All of them struggle, but whether by magic or by hunger and thirst, they are weak. Easily handled by the guards. 

When it’s Eskel’s turn, he struggles as well. Kicks and flails and even bites, but in the end, he kneels in front of the block. The smell of blood stings in his nostrils, covering everything else. His heart beats loud and strong, and he desperately reaches for his magic. But it won’t come. 

In the long moment between the rise and fall of the sword, he catches sight of the blue sky and the swaying treetops beyond the castle walls. Eskel wishes he could ride out on the Path just once more. See Kaer Morhen. Die there. Or die on the Path, like a witcher should.

But Fate has brought him here, and here he dies.


End file.
